February 6, 2006--Nellie

Nellie died. Nellie McKay. She was a student of mine. In the first class I ever taught. At Queens College. In 1965.

I learned about her recent death from an obituary in the NY Times (see it linked below). The obit was of course not about her life as a college student but rather about what she achieved thereafter.

She graduated from college in 1969, a literature major, and went on to Harvard where she was the first black women in that university’s history to earn a Ph.D. in English and American History. That in itself would have merited a Times obituary, but one below the fold and without a photo. Hers was both above the fold because after Harvard she went on to become one of the founders of the field of Women’s Studies, with a particular interest and expertise in black women’s studies. And she looked still very much as I remembered her. As the Times noted, she was the central figure in establishing this essential aspect of cultural history. She was the general editor, along with Henry Lewis Gates, of the definitive Norton Anthology of African American Literature.

So now you know this much about Nellie McKay. Let me tell you a little more that wasn’t included in the obituary.

She took a second course with me in 1968. In American Literature. By early spring we were reading Huckleberry Finn. She was part of a special program at Queens that was set up to enable school para-professionals to complete college degrees. Because of the informal segregation of the New York City teacher corps at that time, virtually all the professional staff, the principals and teachers, were white and all the Paras were black. Thus, Nellie and the rest of my students in that class were African American. You might then imagine that I approached the teaching of Huckleberry Finn with some trepidation, especially since I was not tenured and, I’m not proud to admit, didn’t want to get myself into trouble. In fact, during the evening I remember so vividly, April 4th, we were to discuss the relationship between Huck and, forgive me, Nigger Jim.

Things got quite hot and I was eager for the bell to ring signaling the end of class. One student in particular, I’ll call him Herb Spencer, who had recently been released from Attica where he had served seven years for manslaughter, was dominating that part of the discussion, if you can call it that, and frankly had all of us terrified. He was also physically quite imposing, so when he jumped from his chair to emphasize a point, that Twain was a racist and that was that, none of us had the courage, frankly, to take him on.

Except Nellie. She rose to her full five feet two, turned to him, and said, “Herb, first of all sit down and stop waving your arms like that.” He sat right down. “Twain was not a racist; you missed the whole point. He was showing the society to be racist by representing Jim as so humane.” She said more of course and much better than I am remembering it; but I gave you the essence of the situation.

Just as Nellie sat down, someone from the office entered the classroom, came over to me, and whispered that Martin Luther King had just been assassinated. I slumped back against the desk.

I needed to tell the class but couldn’t think of the appropriate words. I just said, “They killed Martin Luther King.”

Everyone, me included, began to sob.

It was obvious that we needed to adjourn, that we wanted to get home to our families. We hugged and cried some more and began to go our separate ways. Most of the students to South Jamaica, the black ghetto of Queens; me back to Brooklyn Heights, the white ghetto of Brooklyn.

But I realized that Nellie, who had become a friend, did not have a car. She went back and forth to the college by bus. I told her I would drive her home. She said absolutely not. It would be too dangerous for me, a white person in a yellow Opal station wagon, to be driving around South Jamaica the night MLK had been murdered. But I insisted, and after some more arguing she relented and I did in fact drive her home.

As we got closer to where she lived, listening to the news on the radio, we learned that there were fires raging in black neighborhoods across the city and country, including South Jamaica. We could see some from the car. And thought we even heard gunfire.

We did though manage to get to Nellie’s without incident, except to have someone glare at the two of us seated together in my car—a black woman with a white man.

I walked up the front steps with her and into her apartment. Her son Harry was away at college so she was living alone. I asked if she was all right about being home by herself. She said she would be fine; but, but she was not so sure that I would be safe driving by myself back through that part of Queens. I told her that I would be. She though felt otherwise and said I had two choices—either I would stay with her until things settled down or she would accompany me back to Brooklyn.

You know from how she handled Herb Spencer in class that one didn’t fool with Ms. McKay when she was determined about something. So I said, “I’ll stay with you.” Which I did.

It was the worst night of my life: King’s brutal murder; the urban disruptions; the despair about the unknown future of America; and more.

But all through that night, though I had thought I would be taking care of Nellie, she took care of me. Then and for many years thereafter.

Rest easy, Nellie my love.